The Confession of a Murderer Monster Hero
by Oedipus Tex
Summary: Reeling with an incident with a monster, Roy takes a vacation. With over-obedient dogs, over-eager subordinates, and a family of murderous Ishvalans, it might just be the last vacation he ever takes.
1. Part One: Riza: The Problem

_AN: Let's just assume that anything you see on this site isn't owned by the person posting it. I am no exception. I most certainly do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, cause if I did, it wouldn't be called Fullmetal Alchemist. It'd be called Flame._

_I do suppose I own my OCs._

_Mucho thanks to Antigone Rex for always making sure that I'm not leveling some horrid punishment on you all by posting something bad. That is, it may be bad, but at least it's not punishing. Antigone steers me right._

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**_The Confession of a Murderer Monster Hero_**

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**Part One**

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**[Riza]**

**The Problem**

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They were calling him "General No Balls" now. Roy always did preen when called a General—an _Honest-to-God _General! he said, when he got his promotion—but the "No Balls" bit was hard to take. Roy Mustang believed in his virility the way he believed in his country, but was at a loss. There were only so many ways a man could prove himself that way. Since there were no tear-stained women with black-haired, almond-eyed babies in tow, Riza thanked the good Lord Roy didn't seem interested in producing proof to the contrary. But then, the nickname wasn't really about his virility anyway.

"There goes _General No Balls_!" the whispers went, up-and-down the corridors, followed by the titters of a frat house. Captain Riza Hawkeye heard all this, and clenching her manila folders against her chest, said nothing.

It was shameful. It was shameful they would behave this way, and it was shameful she didn't stick up for Roy. She wanted to. She wanted to turn to these men and say, "Are you so ill-equipped to meet him in the political arena _this _is how you attack him?" But she didn't. Even if the lowliest private called Roy a narcissistic maniac to Riza's face, she wouldn't have disagreed. It was better they believed Roy ruined this last ball because he was starved for attention, rather than knowing the truth.

That when Roy came thrashing out of the water, flinging curses like water drops, the decadent expression on his face had been terror.

**. . . **

Brigadier General Roy Mustang had managed to wreck two balls, but the one that birthed his nickname was the Annual Winter Solstice Ball. There couldn't have been a worse event to make a spectacle of himself. It had to have stung. Once the ball was over, Riza tracked him down to Madame Christmas'. He was the brightest spot in the building, leaning on a cue stick, good-naturedly watching a kid from Yous Well hustle him at the pool table. Riza ordered tea and waited for him in a booth. He didn't make her wait long, she'd give him that, but he smiled rapaciously as he slid in at the table across from her.

"Was it worth it?" she asked. The kid with the Yous Well accent was at the bar, buying a drink with a grin-swollen face.

Roy shrugged. "It's only money." As if to prove she couldn't ruin his good mood, he flagged down one of his sisters, kissed her on the neck, and asked her to be a doll and bring him a scotch. She laughed and called him a spoiled ragamuffin, but quickly brought him his drink. Riza wondered how these women, knowing Roy as they did, could treat him as the perpetual schoolboy-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar.

Roy raised his eyebrows at her over the rim of his glass. "What a schoolmarm-ish expression."

"You need help."

"I'm fine."

"You made a fool of yourself."

He stared hard-eyed until he looked away, circling his fingertip into the meat of his thumb. Then he put on a put out expression and muttered, "You sure did make a hasty exit."

"You didn't want me, remember?"

Riza slid out of the booth and went home, to ferret out what signs of Roy's fracture she had missed. She had watched him so closely too.

She was furious. Furious at the people who had done this to him, and furious he had lied so well.

**. . .**

Riza had started out the evening having high hopes. She didn't care about the ball itself, but she knew how important it was to Roy. The ball was going to be a real humdinger this year, people said. Central trembled with excitement. This particular ball was special because not only was it a family affair, where everyone would show off their spouses and children, but it was also being held in honor of the newly arrived Xingese diplomats.

Of course, it meant everything was Xingese-themed.

Including the dress Riza wore to it.

She didn't have much of a choice but to wear the dress, really. In reality, she had all the choice in the world, but one didn't simply snub your nose at a dress that was a gift, especially if it was from the Fuhrer—especially if it was from your Grandfather. It came in a box left propped against her apartment door and there might as well have been a billboard attached: _I want to show off too!_

The dress was Amestrian blue, at least, but it was also cheongsam and silk, embroidered with white flowers she didn't know the name of. When she tried it on, she found it so slippery it made her feel half-naked, even though she wasn't. When she tried it outside, its temperature dropped to about -40 degrees Celsius and froze her stiff. There was a reason she'd been born in Amestris and not Xing.

She found a little note caught in the creases of the box lid: _In case you were going . . ._

Cripes, it was incredibly tiring. Riza already intended to go to the ball, and it had nothing to do with Xingese diplomats she knew nothing of, and it had nothing to do with the Fuhrer wanting her there. But since she was going, she'd wear the dress.

She dreaded what Roy would have to say.

So of course, when she arrived by taxi to the convention center, and stood in line in the vestibule, waiting to enter, who else also happened to be arriving by taxi, smirking and blinking at her from his dress uniform? Roy looked so amused she wanted to put _him_ in this dress and see who looked more Xingese.

"Good evening, sir," she said.

"Hawkeye."

She was only at this ball because of him.

"You're looking mighty—"

"Thank you, sir," she said, brushing her hand across her hip, pretending to straighten a wrinkle from a dress smooth as fat. When she looked back up, Roy was already moving into the ballroom, disappearing behind a Colonel's wife. She hurried to catch up, but the Colonel's wife was large, and had two large children in hand. Even a slick-dressed Riza couldn't slide around them.

When she managed to suck-it-in and get into the ballroom, Roy had disappeared. Finding him was not going to be easy; she stepped on a large potted plant and batted several paper lanterns out of her face to get the lay of the land. The room was a raucous of Xingese clichés: there were cheongsams, dragons, cherry blossoms, paper umbrellas, blue-and-white ceramic, dumplings, pandas, jasmine, and a crepe-paper pagoda in the far corner. The room itself was in the shape of the Yin-Yang symbol, with the buffet table and dance floor as the eyes of encircling fish. An orchestra spelt out Amestrian tunes, but screaming children competed for who could be louder. Already, Riza felt a headache. She just wanted to find Roy so she could bury herself.

To find one Roy Mustang, one must first find the most political spot. This was easy enough. There was an indoor koi pond central to the room, and around it stood the Xingese prince, looking nothing at all like Ling, and his cohort—his wife, children, and staff. Around them were a dozen or so generals with _their_ cohorts, maneuvering around each other in-and-out to gain the Prince's attention, baby birds jostling for their mother's mouth. Following a line from the koi pond to the ballroom door, Riza found Roy. He stood some yards away, tipping his head at the scene contemplatively. She had to get to him before he made his attack, because once he finagled his way in, to the very elbow of the Prince himself, Riza would never be able to reach him.

"Sir!" she called out, stepping down from the plant. A line of twenty children, chained together by hand, cut her off and made her wait. "Sir!"

Major General Balster noticed, and turning, laughing, called, "Mustang! Thought you'd get away, did you?"

It paused Roy long enough for him to notice her, and he waited on straightened knees as Riza made her way to him. "Captain," he said.

Riza looked at him, surprised by his coldness. His mouth was straight, without the upturned corners that so often added levity to his expression, even when he was dead serious.

"Sir, I—"

He sighed, and picking up a drink from a passing waiter, downed it in one swallow. "Why don't you go mingle?"

He lowered his voice, as if he was conscious of her feelings and wished not to humiliate her. Heat curled in Riza's belly, like a dead leaf burning in an urn. So General Balster had embarrassed him.

She didn't say anything, but there must have been something in her face, because he pointed at the koi pond. "It's just business. I have about a dozen generals and their wives to schmooze, _and_ the Xingese coalition. It's not easy to impress a prince, even one related to Ling, you know."

"How do I prevent you, sir?"

"God have mercy, Riza, how can I concentrate with you looking at me like that?"

He took her elbow, his palm cradling her, and pulled her close enough to make her smell his cologne. He looked over her head at the people passing by. "I don't want to hurt your feelings."

She stared at the two shallow furrows dividing the skin of his neck, moving over his Adam's apple as he spoke. She said, "The last time I left you alone, you got into trouble."

The furrows plowed into his neck. He smiled without upturning the corners of his mouth. "I just . . . it's emasculating to be babysat all the time."

For weeks, she had perceived his growing irritation with her, and perhaps she brought this upon herself for ignoring the signs. Yet, that leaf in her belly curled into ash.

She stepped back so he could steer himself toward the contingent of political hobnobbers. He looked like some plastic blinking toy invading the dusty rolling hoops and cornhusk dolls of an antique shop. Well, she was angry, but it was hard to watch him. How easily he went from dismissing her to ingratiating himself to the wives and Xingese. Riza turned away, biting the inside of her cheek. The Winter Spirit, passing out candy from underneath a fluffy beard, was tipsy-eyed. If it didn't sum up Riza's day so far. Happy Winter Solstice, indeed.

She wasn't going to let Roy ruin her day. She scanned the room, looking for somebody to talk to. But how did everyone else manage to look so jocular? Roy was yukking it up, joking about indoor koi ponds and telling outrageous lies about Ling. Her comrades-under-tyranny were no less interested in making fools of themselves: Heymans and his lieutenant were hiding under the pagoda, trading Xingese love poetry, she hoped not; and Jean and Kain were initiating a flanking maneuver on a single female, ducking under low-hanging paper lanterns to come up on her. The only thing to do was flag down a waiter for a glass of wine.

A few minutes later, Rebecca saved her from having to break up a fistfight between a colonel's son and a major's daughter. They spoke their _how-d'you-do's_ and Rebecca was already going on about the lack of _hunks_ when they heard two shouts and a splash. Riza just _knew_ it was Roy who had ended up in the koi pond.

She wasn't wrong.

His black head was submerged under two feet of water, frightening the koi to the far side of the pond, they like schoolgirls and he the worm. A smattering of light, stunned laughter filled the immediate air around him. The Prince leaned over, offering a hand for when Roy resurfaced. Riza could only imagine what Roy would say to turn this to his advantage.

But he didn't resurface. Instead, he floundered, kicking up waves of water that had the wives and generals scattering.

"Stand _up_, Roy," Riza whispered. She clenched her wine glass, pinning her feet to the floor only through willpower. Her instinct was to run to him, but it would be absurd for Roy to drown in two feet of water.

Rebecca tipped her wine glass against her teeth, looking at Riza with the whites of her eyes. "A joke's a joke, but . . ."

Roy continued to thrash. And Roy continued to trash. It hit Riza then: He was panicking. She remembered—Of course he was panicking! _Roy_!

Before she could shove her glass in Rebecca's hand and push through the crowd, Jean was there. Brilliant Jean, who was a complete idiot, stepped into the pond and hauled Roy out of the water. He grinned at the Prince, trying to cover it all, but Roy ruined it: He wrapped his arm around Jean's elbow and scrubbed his face in desperation. And then spluttered:

"_Oh_—"

Roy fell apart.

What followed was a slew of curse words that drove the blood from Riza's head in a nauseating rush. Roy had already been a spectacle, always was a spectacle: but now, the Xingese shied away, the mothers covered the ears of their children, and the generals huffed and puffed and got red-faced. Roy said every curse word Riza thought must exist, and he said them vibrantly, raging and crumpling. The noise around them was already subdued, his flopping having already drawn the attention of everyone nearby. His carnality drove the noise to silence, and he forgot where he was.

Riza ached.

He came down from the apex of his fury, and began censoring himself. When he paused to take a breath of air, he said something low to Jean. Jean's forced grin froze, and his eyes flicked to Riza's. Riza looked the ballroom.

She was already slipping her way for the door and the white thatch of hair disappearing out of it, when Jean began pulling Roy from the water and telling jokes as if he was at a stand-up. But no amount of joking could fix this. Grumman pulled the Winter Spirit beard away from his face, and his grieved expression spoke of the trouble coming Roy's way.

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**Next time: Amestris' first redneck!**


	2. Part One: Yehudi: The First Patient

_AN: Sorry this has taken forever and a day. A funny thing happened . . . I got stuck. __**Antigone Rex**__, that wonder, even helped me out, and I still got stuck. I don't like using the term "Writer's Block." I feel if I get stuck, it's not because I don't know how to proceed, it's because there's something wrong with what I have. Back to the drawing board. So this is my offering. Desperate, and maybe meager, but should stoke the fire. Also, I've had no sleep, and am possibly delirious. Thanks!_

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**Part One**

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**[Yehudi]**

**The First Patient**

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Roy Mustang was going to end up with a curse on his head. Not that Yehudi would've been the one to put it there.

Yehudi didn't curse, nossir. It was one of the things that made him proud. There were things to be ashamed of, that was true—mainly, how he slipped into his native vernacular at times, saying things like, "I ain't going there, me" even though he'd spent years trying to squish and squash such words out of him. Sometimes, a person just can't fight his genes. But there were things to be proud of, Number One being he was a therapist. Number Two was how he didn't curse.

And he weren't talking about just the devilish curses either, but also the ones that flipped the verbal finger. No, he tempered his anger speech with words that mayhap pricked and burned and maybe even victimized, but did not swear—only that which snarled but did not blaspheme. Respectability, dignity, and venerability were lost which each curse, he believed.

But having a patient like Roy Mustang would make any man curse the day he became a therapist—both types of cursing! That's exactly what Yehudi Alwoody did too, and there weren't nothing to do about. 'Cept bring out the voodoo, maybe.

"You tell me just the name and appearance of this rascal, son, and I'll curse him good, me," Mam said, one morning. Out she pulled a tiny man from her bosom. This disturbed Yehudi greatly, because he was always telling her no voodoo at the kitchen table.

"Mam, no. He needs compassion."

"He be a scoundrel."

Yehudi put his face in his hands and moaned. Many a breakfast had been ruined by his mam's observance to what she called "The Old Ways," even though she'd learned them from some crank who conned her out of the title to her house. Which was exactly why she was living with Yehudi now, ruining his breakfasts. Well, it would be ruined, if it weren't for Rauha rubbing his arm. Rauha was his star-shined wife of three months, she of infinite patience. But a mam like his would try the patience of _God_. He'd be lucky if he could _keep_ Rauha another three months!

He was sorry to say that. Mam wasn't such a terrible mother, nossir. Just now, she peered and then pushed her plate of scrambled eggs at him. He ate them gratefully. Then she ruined it all by saying, "Maybe, you shouldna wasted my good money, like I told you."

The eggs turned to sulfur right in Yehudi's mouth. "Mam, why can't you just be proud of me? You raised a therapist!"

"Well, you can't handle your patients."

"Not all of them are gonna be this way . . . just the first one, is all."

"You shoulda been a cello man, like your pap!" Mam cackled. "Rauha, you shoulda seen the old coot! He be sawing on that cello and everybodys has got guitars and fiddles and the like. He think he some fancy symphonic. And that be your problem too, Yehudi! Trying to be fancy when you don't got the fancy."

Yehudi bristled. His mam thought him dumb as a brick.

She made it clear from Day One too. When he had told her he was going to school to become a therapist, be said, "Don't be wasting my good money, son." And when he later showed her what her money had bought—a glossy diploma with Rococco-lettered _Amestris Certified Counselor_ on it—she said, "I just can't believe, nossir," and waved a wooden spoon in his face. The wooden spoon meant he deserved a whooping for fibbing.

But he wasn't fibbing—he really was a therapist, and there weren't wooden spoons enough in this world that'd take that away from him. Even if he was just barely graduated and now sat in an office building with _Theratreat _printed on the windows. _Theratreat_ didn't sound so much like counseling services to him but maybe a sort of candy, but what he know? The other therapists and psychologists didn't think it nothing wrong, and they had more experience and more letters behind their names, some with even the whole alphabet! That was a sad truth.

But the saddest truth was with so many fancy-titled men around, what hope did Yehudi have for attracting a patient? Sure, he got a few—the ones no one else wanted, mostly. There was the man that couldn't leave the house without fixing a clown nose to his face, and the woman who . . . well, it weren't decent, what she'd like to do. But _there_ was the trouble: no one came asking for _him_, they just ended up with him because the doctors were busy. _Brother! _did this mean Yehudi had a lot of extra time for himself, he was getting a complex! There weren't much to fill his days other than be glum and disfigure the faces of those pert-eyed cherubs that stared down so from the crown molding.

But when Yehudi got himself a real patient—one that actually asked for _him_—he thought he'd put his carving days behind him. That was before he knew what sort of person Roy Mustang was.

He'd been innocently sitting in his office on the day he got the call. He'd been reading transcripts of other men's therapy sessions, seeing how to make his like theirs—where the patient could say plain what the problem was without making the therapist blush—and that's when Clara knocked on the door. Clara was Dr. Pequod's receptionist, but Yehudi's too, because he wasn't too busy none.

"Howdee, Clara."

"I have a client on the phone, requesting an appointment," she said.

"Which one? I ain't seeing that woman more than twice a week, I can't handle it."

"This is a _new _client, sir."

"Oh Lord! Look-see, just tell Doctor Pequod that I'm flattered at his trust in me, but—"

"Mister Alwoody, this isn't like _that_. This one asked for _you_."

He looked at Clara close to see if she was playing a trick on him, but he couldn't make it past all those fantastic finger waves of hers. He wondered how she did them without burning her fingers.

"The client was asking if you made house calls," she continued, blinking round those finger waves. "The patient is injured and housebound—her nephew. She's on the phone now if you would like to speak to her."

Yehudi leapt up. "I do!"

He spoke to the woman on the phone, and had an appointment set up for that very day, lickety-split. Then it was back to the office to snatch up his second-hand briefcase, plunge a pencil through a cherub's forehead as victory, and wink at Dr. Pequod as he went out. Dr. Pequod'd been in the process of stuffing an apricot strudel in his face.

Yehudi hadn't lived in Central long; so being unfamiliar with the patient's address, got himself a taxi. After traveling streets he'd never had occasion to travel before, they reached a quiet and empty neighborhood that surprised Yehudi by the glitter and bang of it—what with cheerful restaurants; a picture show; and tall and stately brick houses with fancy colors painted on, some with curtains on the upper windows and red-fringes on the lower. Yehudi didn't knowing anything about fringes. When the driver pulled up to a stop, Yehudi hopped right out, as ignorant as a newborn.

"I didn't know they opened so early," the driver said, before pulling away. "Have a good time."

Yehudi didn't know what that meant, but got to guessing once he got a good look around. He looked harder at the picture show and the other buildings, many of them with signs. Then he looked harder at the address he'd been called to, and discovered something.

This is what he discovered: this was NO HOUSE he'd been called to.

What it said above the door was "Bar**_._**"

And he even doubted that! The neighborhood had plenty of "houses", but Yehudi never knew of a real house that put up a sign saying it was one. And the harder he looked at the signs, the harder he had to _not_ look at them. Furthermore, Yehudi was certainly sure the "Madame Christmas" of this bar weren't in the wax business. Yehudi knew what this all was. Why, this was all just a prank of Dr. Pequod's!

Dr. Pequod had a horrible habit for playing pranks and tricks on people . . . mostly on people that didn't have "Doctor" before their name. It was the reason why Yehudi ended up with the woman with the indecent hobby, he was sure. It was the reason why Yehudi had been called to this accursed place, he was doubly sure.

Wondering when he was going to stop falling for it, Yehudi turned his back on this place, wanting to get back to civilization before something else happened. Of course, that's when something else did happen—the worst thing possible!

Someone called his name!

Yehudi whipped around, and saw a female in a lily-white cravat stepping out of the bar's entrance. Her strange beadle-like eyes poked right on him, and the sweat dripped down his back.

"Excuse me," the female said, "are you Doctor Alwoody?"

"I—am." The spit was thick in Yehudi's throat.

"Right here, Doctor."

He bolted up the stairs to quit her shouting. He'd be horrified if he found an acquaintance in this neighborhood, but he'd be even more horrified if an acquaintance found _him_! He lifted his Homburg hat.

"Good day, miss," he said, in a half-whisper. "Not to disagree with you none, but I am not technically a doctor. _Mister _Alwoody will do, thanks."

The female took stock of him, and clasped her hands against her teeth, hiding a smile none too good. "Oh brother, is he going to eat you alive!"

Yehudi barely heard her because she had opened the door, and the thought of going in had him blushing up to his eyeballs. But much against himself, he jammed his hat very low over his ears and ducked inside. If Mam could see him now! She'd be saying, "Boyo, what be doing? Get out, right now!"

But Yehudi was a professional, yessir, and he had a duty—professional. He let himself be led past the bar, which he only professionally _half_-noticed (cause his eyes were only _half_-shut), under a spiraling staircase, and then—here's the kicker—down a hallway _towards the back_. The hallway smelled of evergreen. This surprised Yehudi. What surprised him more were the oriental rugs on the floor, threadbare in all the right places. This place had class, but Yehudi still wished he had one of Mam's protective amulets on him, even if he didn't believe in them. He continued to follow the woman until they reached a closed door. The woman rapped on the door, and then opening it without waiting for an answer, motioned for Yehudi to go in. And Yehudi went. Inside, there was a man.

Brigadier General Roy Mustang, lying resplendent on a velvet couch and slurping from a martini glass, looked over at Yehudi, and yawned.

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**Next time: Roy Mustang! Doing what he does best—flaming!**

(Antigone knows what I'm talking about!)


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